Leather in the Wind
by buche
Summary: Nightmares and grief in the midst of the Reaper War.


_This is not in any way related to Star Crossed Assassins (my main multichaptered fic). This drabble is about my canon Shepard and how she coped with Thane's death in the game. It goes with a portrait of Hope I commissioned on Tumblr. On FF it will serve as a cover, but if you wish to see it in good quality, please visit my tumblr account: labucheronne._

* * *

Hope woke up with a start, shaking and sweating, and cast frantic glances around her.

Her cabin. Of course. Another nightmare. She should be used to them now. She could hear her heart beating at an incredible pace in her ears and searched for something to focus on. Anything.

There was _something_.

The only thing that worked. _His_ jacket lay on her lap, brushed away by her sudden awakening. Shaky fingers clenched on the fabric, leather rustling quietly in the silent time, there were no tears. It didn't mean anything was getting easier. Not without _him_. She brought the garment to her lips and let them graze softly on it as she inhaled the entrancing leather scent that now haunted her nights more than ever. Oh, it didn't bring any comfort. Merely the slight reassurance that she was back in reality and not still trapped in some horrifying world her mind had made up, where entire civilisations kept dying and the galaxy kept crumbling into pieces through her fingers like sand. It didn't do anything to ease the emptiness. It's all that was left. Duty and emptiness.

 _Commander Shepard._

More like train-wreck Shepard. Making all the wrong decisions, reacting on impulse, ruthless and hurt, and still pushing through to save the galaxy. How heavy that weight felt on her bare, cold shoulders.

The crew had felt the shift. Without her usual shadow of calm and serenity, she felt off-balance. And it was a noticeable change. She was more violent, less logical. Dangerous, yes, but not only to the reapers now. She barely made any effort to interact with her mates and, as a consequence, all had stopped trying, tired of being brushed away. She couldn't blame them. She'd been awful to deal with. The scars had gotten worse, scarier, uglier. She looked like a lifeless mech. She felt like a lifeless mech. Accurate description.

If only he was here.

She did not have eidetic memory, yet memories were her torture all the same. She wondered how _he_ had managed to move on. Battlesleep? She was probably already mimicking that behavior.

 _The funeral_. The empty words of the others, even those of Kolyat, and her silence. There was nothing to say. He was gone, and she was as cold as his corpse.

 _The messages Kolyat had transferred_. The painful, horrible messages she wished she'd have gotten earlier.

 _Tu-fira_

Fuck tu-fira. Fuck all these hollow defining words for emotions. All she wanted was him, and all she had was this damned jacket, taunting her with his scent, already fading, always fading a little more each night. She fought the urge to throw it away and clutched it instead, desperately, pathetically, as the tears finally came out.

 _Stupid drell!_

Why did he have to charge like an idiot on a fucking swordsman! Why did he refuse the lung transplant? Why did he leave her alone with the void just when she thought she'd finally found peace?

She'd never even properly said the three dumb words he'd pronounced posthumously.

 _Posthumously_.

She punched the pillow angrily and let herself sink into the bed, now facing the stars through the window.

 _The dark between the stars is enormous_.

He believed in an afterlife. The Shores of Kalahira. She wanted to believe, too. It was comforting to think he was happy, on a sandy beach, somewhere, waiting for her as he promised. Would she even be able to join him if that afterlife actually existed? Religious concepts could only go so far. Yet, the thought of being reunited clawed in her exhausted mind like a bloodthirsty beast, tearing everything apart on its way. If she was indeed a Siha, maybe she could send a message.

"Kalahira, if you exist… god, what am I even doing..." She stopped mid-sentence, realizing how desperate she was.

It felt dumb. But then again, she was so numb with the acute pain of his loss that she didn't really care anymore.

"Kalahira, Mistress of Inscrutable Depths, if you hear me, tell him. Tell him I miss him. Tell him I love him."

Tears threatened again, and this time she didn't fight them.

"Tell him I'm lost without him." Her voice faltered.

Her name had never felt so ironic.

A sudden gust of wind caressed her cheek, making her shiver. It was warm. Oddly comforting. It brought a strange sense of serenity. She relaxed slightly, bringing the jacket to her lips again.

 _Probably just a bug in the ventilation system._


End file.
